221 Casebook Tales
by peaceandlove23
Summary: First few fics, why not a series?
1. Chapter 1

Lestrade walked briskly through the crowed streets, as he had in the past years, and still does. His occasion for it was not a dastardly villain, that had sprung up and stolen a priceless gem, or a mysterious murder that was impossibly committed by a bull pup. He wasn't at his wit's end because of a queer series of burglaries or a strange pattern being carved into all the park trees after a stroke of midnight, as happened last month. No, Lestrade was a his wit's end because he had "accidentally" broken a vase from his mother-in-law.

Amelia had been begging for his attention since he got home, and she was at that age where they discover a tug at the sleeve calls upon the big peoples attention. As it were, or as he explained to his fuming Kate, their little girl had tugged a bit too hard at his sleeve, while he was trying to balance the evening paper* and look at the mail. His hand let go of the paper, and...well it was an accident! And Kate had brought up how he never liked the vase anyway, and Lestrade for his part reminded her he does more in the day than sit and ponder about how he dislikes the ugly china vases her mother insists on them getting each year on their anniversary.

Perhaps mention words like "ugly" and "badly painted" and eventually "I'd find the same vase in a gypsy tent and for a better price" weren't the best choice. But he had been angry! Paperwork and irrational civilians all day, who wouldn't? But all the same they had said harsh words...and he heard poor Amelia cry as he slammed the door. Blast it he felt horrible, but not enough to whine to the nearest drunk in a pub somewhere. Only enough to find consolation in a man who put up with someone who could be as difficult and quick to anger as his Kate.

Dr. Watson of course!

Or at least he'd find advice with the man on how to make it up to Kate, and little Amy. So that's why Lestrade found himself walking briskly to 221B on an evening he'd rather be enjoying at home. He knocked and went up the steps he had trampled many a-times, and knocked. The sound of a muffled "Come in" was heard, and come in he did.

The oddest sight. The man he knew as Sherlock Holmes, was kneeling at the arm of one of the armchair, on one knee, and in the chair no doubt sat the man the Yarder had come to see. Though the good Doctor had the chair facing away from the door, and Lestrade could see the ends of a paper peek out from the ends of the chair. Holmes greeted him, in his usual booming voice, when trying to get his friend's attention. Though the Doctor did not turn, but still greeted in a friendly voice as ever, "Yes, evening Lestrade! I say what brings you here old man?"

"Ah, just thought I'd pop in. See how you lot were doing...am I-?"

"No, no, sit down Lestrade." Watson said, still not turning, but motioning with his hand for their guest to sit at the opposite chair, and asking if he wanted a drink.

"No, I'm alright." Lestrade said, noticing the dismayed expression on Holmes' face. In fact if the Yarder didn't know better, he'd say the Detective looked, ashamed? Or at least awkward? Sherlock Holmes, of all people? He could only guess the reason having to do with Watson ignoring him at his arm.

"So how are things Lestrade?" Watson asked. Holmes usually spoke...or spoke first unless in one of his "black moods", but he didn't seem to be. It was unsettling how quiet the man was. He smiled weakly at Lestrade and sat on the floor between the two chairs, legs crossed, but still looking up at the Doctor.

"Well, honestly, not too well.."

"Oh?"

"And why is that?" Watson asked.

"Well,...uh, " He stammered, what happened with these two? He continued,"Kate and I had a bit of a falling out, I accidentally knocked over a vase from her mother. And it broke."

"Oh, that's bothersome isn't it?" Watson observed. Still not moving the paper from his face.

"..." Lestrade looked at Holmes and asked seriously, "What did you do?"

Holmes opened his mouth, really about to explain when Watson answered, "Holmes? Oh he did nothing at all!"

There was obvious angry in his voice. Lestrade had seen the good Doctor angry, but this time it widened his eyes, in fear and shock. He looked at Holmes, who had the same expression and asked again, "What have you done Man?"

Holmes looked nervous and was again about to speak when Watson, again, nearly shouted, "He did nothing! Nothing at all, just thought he'd experiment with his blasted chemistry set," With this Watson finally removed the paper in front of him and revealed to both of their horror what had happened. The area of Watson's face, where there had been a beautiful sandy-blond mustache, now had only a few hairs as a reminder and the rest was a painful-looking, bright red, area of skin that looked tender to the touch.

"...and didn't even give me a warning shout before it blew up!" Watson concluded. Holmes by now had scooted closer to the Inspector, eye apologetic and pleading. Watson continued, "Oh he's been very sweet all day! Quiet as a mouse, offering to get my ties cleaned, or fetch me a copy of the strand, or my notebook to write in! You know he even ate all of his dinner today?! As if that would stop my upper lip from burning?! Or make my mustache grow back!"

Lestrade looked at the man responsible, who looked guilty in the face of Watson's shouts, and then back at the angry Doctor.

"Uh...I'll just leave you both to it...goodnight." He said, to Holmes, to Watson he said the man might want to find some sort of ointment or so.

And Lestrade left for his own home, stopping to get flowers and Kate's favorite wine, and stopping at the Toy Store and purchasing a new doll. If anything Lestrade got put of that visit, about fight with your spouse, he realized at least he never burned Kate's mustache off. And thank god she didn't have one!


	2. Chapter 2

Many thanks to Lilly McMissile and B. August! :)

* * *

The Doctor and Inspector stood side by side. The Inspector nervously glancing at the Doctor from time to time, caught between remarking, and keeping himself silent. Two months after the chemistry accident, Dr. Watson's upper lip was no longer a bright tender red, and it wasn't burning the poor man either. His mustache had even began to grown back, unevenly and in patches, and some of those patches were a grayish hue rather than the sandy-blond it once was. And instead of a brilliant red, the area of flesh was now a pastel pink color.

The Doctor had reasoned to let it grown as it may, and see what extent the damage actually was. At first he attempted to bandage the area, but found quickly that people were less trustful of a Doctor with bandages around his own face, and abandoned the idea, resolved to brave it. And besides it cheered up his younger patients.

As for Lestrade, who was still wondering if he should mention the...scar(?) looked as though it was healing. Firstly, he had no idea (and wasn't going to ask) exactly what those chemicals were or what Holmes had in fact been attempting to do, and had no way to know if that the poor man's lip was healing. Second, for all he knew Watson might rather not speak of the thing.

"It's no longer burning...if that's what you're wondering Inspector..." Watson offered calmly.

"I wasn't going to mention-"

"Oh it's fine, it's fine...Did you ever patch things up with Mrs. Lestrade?"

"Yes, all is forgiven...and has he?" The Inspector motioned to the man a few paces from them, balancing himself on a tree limb in order to get a closer look at a small bird's nest, while four nervous constables waited, ready to catch him if they needed to.

"He still figures I'm angery with him." Watson answered.

"Are you?"

"No, not really, I've learned it doesn't really do any good to stay angery at Holmes for long. " Watson replied with a sigh, " And he really does feel guitly about it."

"How long are you going to-?"

"Long time."

The two smirked, as the subject of thier decotion began desending the tree. This tree was located in front of the house owned by Sir Dennis Branwill, where inside his son, daugther-in-law, and two grandchildren waited, and had discovered his body earlier that morning. Well, it was actually the man's grandduaghter, Leah Branwill, age ten, who had been sent to see if her Grandfather was dressed for breakfast, and instead had found him sprawled across his bedroom floor. What was chilling was that his left forefinger hand been cut-off, and where his left hand rested, was the word "HE" written in the old man's blood.

At the same time, Leah's twin brother, Leland, had sneaked out of his room in the early morning and was bust climbing the very tree Holmes had ventured. And it was in that bird nest young Leland found what could only be his Grandfather's finger. Holmes and the Good Doctor had been summoned nearly as soon as Lestrade had been notified.

Once Sherlock Holmes had scaled down the tree without injury, he began to asked for the finger Leland had found. It was brought forth, and by this time the Doctor and Inspector had approached him. Once in his possession, Holmes took the severed forefinger in both his hands, and proceeded to break it in half. Succeeding in doing so, one of the younger constables turning away ill, and Lestrade angrily shouting at him. Holmes reply to the shocked expressions and anger at destroying evidence, let alone and body part of another human being, was simply telling the fuming Inspector to touch the two bits that remained.

Taken aback by the inappropriate request Lestrade declared he would most certainly not, and nodding at that, Holmes snatched Lestrade's hand and placed both of the finger bits in his palm.

At first, as any decent human would do, the Inspector yelped, and then became quiet, as he began to trace over the finger with his own (at Holmes' insistence, and the Inspector's a leap of faith) and said after a pause, "It's wax?''

"Yes Lestrade, wax! A wax mold of a left forefinger." Holmes said, retrieving a notebook, and writing fervently in it. Other than going out, in his own way, to be polite to Watson, he had also taken to writing his own notes. Truthfully the Doctor him self felt a bit useless without his usual documentation, and would have told his friend-if he didn't enjoy the nights without the good old violin-at-three-in-the-morning practices.

"Have you spoken to Branwill's family yet?" Holmes asked, still writing.

"We have, while you were inspecting the body, earlier."

"And if I remember the man's clothes for the day were still on his bed?"

"Yes, as though the poor fellow was ready to start dressing."

Holmes ripped the paper from his notebook and gave it to the Inspector. "Ask his son and daughter-in-law the first two questions on that ask the children the other three."

"Why, if I may ask?" Lestrade put forth.

"Ask them these questions, and I think you'll be able to piece it together yourself." The Detective smirked at the Inspector.

Lestrade nodded, if not a bit unbelieving, and stalked into the house. Holmes looked at Watson and said, advioding his eyes and putting the notebook back in his coat pocket, "I hold faith in Lestrade, or enough to say I believe our work is fairly done here." He pursed his lips, "If you would not mind our return home."

"Oh course not, Old Boy." Watson replied.

Watson replied, as they turned to the house themselves. He did consider letting the Detective go on thinking he was angry with him , still, was a bit cruel and unkind. But then he thought of the early morning violin practices, coming home to Bakerstreet, with their rooms smelling like a roasted turnip-stuffed boot, the bullet holes in the wall, Holmes coming from some adventure with knife wounds all over him, and that one time he replaced Watson's shaving cream* with burn ointment (and then refusing to disclose exactly why he had done so), and then the good Boswell felt justified. Still, he admitted it was a bit odd, Holmes asking for his consent for this and that...but not too odd.

* * *

* I have no idea what shaving cream looked like back then, as soon what it was made of or what container it was sold in...or anything really. Anyway I searched the internet fervently and still came up empty handed, so I'm going to need you to go with it.


	3. Chapter 3

_Lots of love and thanks to those reading and/or commenting! You guys are appreciated._

_Also, I forgot to mention...I own NOTHING...NOTHING!,,,NOTHING!_

* * *

The morning was quiet, and they had been for the last two months or so. Ms. Hudson, perhaps under different circumstances, would have thanked God for the clam that once graced 221B returning, like in the days before she took up Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson in the above rooms. Not that she disliked the two men or regretted renting the rooms to them, really if anything they were close to the two sons she never had...with Mr. Holmes as the noisy wayward son, of course.

But still the calm that had overtaken 221B was a very nice change of things. Or so it had been. The Landlady of course knew about the 'chemistry accident' and had been on the Doctor's side when he explained his plan about letting the perpetrator squirm a bit. They both agreed a few days of peace would be good for all of them. But the woman had started to become uncomfortable with seeing Mr. Holmes so placid.

So when Dr. Watson came to her the night before and said he believed he's tortured his friend long enough, and that he'd tell him he'd forgiven the man long ago, he heart lifted with relief. Yes, strange as it seemed the idea of normality returning to 221B was a pleasant thought. But still she worried about the man's reaction, having seen angry before.

'You worry for nothing!' She told herself, after all these were full grown men, not children.

* * *

Holmes was silently pouring their tea, after Ms. Hudson brought some up, and Watson decided know would be a good time to tell him. He was not completely sure how his friend would react, and had considered telling him simply that all is forgiven, not mentioning that all had been forgiven nearly three months ago. But the good Doctor knew that he'd be plagued with guilt if he didn't tell him the full truth. A small part of him wondered, and wouldn't be surprised, if his friend knew already.

Whether he did or not, it was too out of place seeing his friend so restrained. Eating regularly, restricting his violin playing, sleeping at normal hours a person should sleep, and he hadn't so much as looked at his chemistry set since the accident. And the worst, by Watson's reasoning, was that for these near three months Holmes had not taken any cases, or at least none worthy of his attention.

Small and easy problems of housewives and store-owners, cases that even Watson knew were below his friend's ability, not to mention quite boring as well. The only exception would have been the Branwill business a week prior, and that had been easily solved. Holmes was a creature that lived for the excitement, and adventure, and most of all the challenge.

Watson also knew that Holmes had, in all this time, resisted the 'seven percent solution', as part of his apologies no doubt, and though the Doctor was glad for this, he knew the absence of the drug and the absence of a worthy case were eating at him. If not one the other.

It was obvious in those steely grey eyes that the brain behind them was aching and rotting and Watson knew how cruel he had been. He knew also he'd regret it in the future, but his friend was in a way wasting away, and willing to do so as long as he thought it would help him back into Watson's favor. And for that Watson knew he had carried it on long enough.

High time to put an end to it, regardless of the anger Holmes might have, Watson knew he deserved it.

"I say, Holmes..."

"Yes Watson?"

* * *

That evening Ms. Hudson was surprised to see Mr. Holmes in such a jovial mood, and the shared glance from Watson reassured her he forgave in kind.

That night there was a sudden spring of music that cut through the air, and John H. Watson was glad to hear it.


	4. Chapter 4

It was that time if year when it was cold I the morning, but only in the morning, warming as the day went on and the Sun rose, and again as it went down the coldness returned Either way, right now it was morning, and cold outside and inside, and though Dr. Watson had spent years in Afghanistan, accustomed to the intense temperatures of heat, he still wasn't too enthusiastic about leaving the warmth of his bed.

So you can imagine his dismay when the sharp and sure sound of what could only be the door to the flat slamming open woke him in the early hours. The Doctor kept his eyes closed, though awake and attentive. Knowing his friend was most likely still on the sette, and that he'd give rise to call if the good Doctor was needed.

And he prayed he wasn't needed...least not for seven more hours...

"Watson!"

Watson didn't respond right away, and hoped there was a "Never mind Old Man!" soon to follow. Though he knew full well there wouldn't be, and groaned with tiredness when his name was bellowed again.

All the same he jumped from the bed, the cold air biting and nipping at his skin. Though he wasted no time in retrieving the revolver from his nightstand, and hurrying to Holmes' aid, and whatever villain that had the nerve to call so early!

"Watson!" Rang Holmes again, and like lightning the Doctor was ready,

weapon drawn, awake and prepared to face the adversary.

And instead saw a rather large and furry dog. Large enough to have tackled

Holmes to the ground And was now panting silently, eyeing Watson,with it's large, and long furred tail wagging through the looking thoroughly annoyed, And seemed to have been licked quite a few times.

Looking towards the door he saw a very upset landlady, thinking of all the fur that was no doubt on Holmes' dressing gown, clothes, and the carpet, not to mention the furniture. Next to her, a head of messy blond hair was all Watson needed to recognize Wiggins' right hand, Art, one of the irregulars. He seemed to be in awe of the dog's behavior, his mouth a gape and eyes wide.

For a moment none of them spoke, and the Doctor was convinced he was still dreaming, fixing to go back to bed, when Art said, coming to his senses, "I'm 'eal sorry. Miss 'udson, I'll he'lp you clean the fur, or do it me'self!" He said quickly, and looking to Holmes, And also dragging the dog by it's collar off away from the man,"I'm sorry too, Mr. 'olmes, but 'es a biggin' and got away frome me."

Holmes had risen, and began attempting to swat the fur off himself, and said, "Why was he here in the first place?", surprisingly in a level calm voice. Though the am very of being tackled, licked, and pawed at had broken more than just hygienic boundaries, and the anger was bubbling below his skin.

"Wiggins found 'im alone, and hungry and wes' gave 'im somefin' to eat, And fige'erd we's 'ook for 'is man, on count of the collare' in 'is neck." And indeed there was a dulled circle of silver on it's dark collar. "But 'ed thought it best to wait till the mornin'."

"It would have been indeed wise Art," Holmes nearly seethed, "But why did you think it wise to bring him here?"

"Wiggins sawr 'is ear! It's a torn!" The boy's small voice started to break, though Holmes had noticed the creature's ear when it jumped on him. The injury was old by some years,and Holmes told the boy, who's spirit visibly lifted.

"So 'es okay! Oh t'ank you Mr. 'olmes! T'ank you 'ery mooch! Rightly wor'ied we's was!"

Holmes couldn't help but smile at the boy's relief. Art turned to Ms. Hudson who was still in the doorway and said he would get Wiggins to come and help him clean the fur up. His show of gratitude.

"I was 'really scared for 'im! I knew you we're a doc-" The boy looked round, " Mr. Watson?"

The sound of a door slamming shut was the only answer.

* * *

** It's my first time writing a cockney dialect, okay?! I'M SORRY! I'M SORRY! *cries in a corner***


	5. Chapter 5

**I'm sorry but this idea wouldn't leave me alone,and I know some people might think I should post this somewhere else, but I thought it would fit,and, and, and DON'T HATE ME!*starts crying***

* * *

Awkward was probably the best and worst way to describe it. Best because that is what feeling over took the three, and worst because it was a bit of an understatement.

A understatement because what was happening clearly broke several laws of physics and most likely laws in the scientific world in general, and in the process froze the three brothers in their tracks, but it also intrigued them as much as it threw them off guard.

Lost for words they simply stared at each other, one with his lips parted slightly, one looking as though he wasn't sure he could trust his eyes, and the third clearly disturbed to a degree.

They knew who the other was, but why this was happening escaped them.

_"I...don't suppose either of you have something to do with this...?"_ Asked the one with the scarf and very curly hair. He stared at his left, hardly believing he saw the same street he was on, except beyond his brother-of-sorts, he saw it was filled with Victorian carriages and lonely waifs and many men with tops hats and other things only familiar to him in history books.

**°"No."** Answered the Victorian. He felt a small and uncomfortable sense of fright by seeing the metallic beasts on wheels that dominated the streets of the other two. Sadly for his friend (all of their respective friends) it seemed more like he stopped in the middle of the pavement, and said no to him.

To which the Victorian Doctor groaned,**"Holmes, we have talked about this many times before! Really you behave as an absolute child-**"

He didn't hear the doctor, and turned to the third man, who had been watching with wide eyes, silent and in shock. The curly headed one did the same, recognizing the busy streets of New York.

"Neither do I..." Said Detective answered.

The woman next to him replying:"Neither do you what, Sherlock?" A bit concerned.

**"How did this come about?"** The Victorian asked.

Beside him he was answered,**"Holmes! Really, don't pretend to be so daft! W****hen a man and woman find they have much in common, and have known one another for sometime-"**

_"I don't know."_

John answered, intrigued himself,_ "What? What don't you know?"_ Receiving silence and glazed over stare, _"Sherlock? You alright?"_

They all stared, at lost, to one another, ignoring the lectures and worried questions from Dr. Watson, Joan, and John respectively. Caught between interest, fear, and worry. This had never happened before. And wasn't suppose to. All the same this made them wonder for the others, has this happened with them? Or was it all some sort of universal glitch in the fabrics of space and apparently time.

"What do you suppose we should do?"

Next to him Joan Watson said, hoping her condescending tone would snap him out of his trace, "We we're going to the park...remember?" She asked,"I was going to show you how to catch*..."

_"I'm not sure, we might be disrupting something just by speaking and looking at each other."_

Beside him John asked, also worriedly, what he was talking about. They had been on a simple trip to the market, since he had been shut up inside flat for the past six weeks, and it was fiercely decided he needed fresh air. But now John wasn't so sure with that vacant dreamy voice his friend adopted.

**"Since it's safe to assume this isn't the work of a criminal or the other-"**

**"Holmes...of course it isn't!"** Dr. Watson said, pinching the bridge of his nose,**"Not even your so called Moriarty could have caused me to-"**

**"-perhaps we should return home..."**

_"...our respective homes that is."_ The curled one finished.

_"Sherlock, we're flatmates remember..."_

"Agreed."

Joan looked at him oddly. "Sherlock...are you okay?"

"For all we know this is a glitch of some sort, or ...Who knows," The New York Detective suggested,"this may be quite routine."

_"That's true, we are still a bit new in, comparison."_

"This could very well be resolved by tomorrow. Looking around..." He then stepped back two paces, and his brothers-of-a-kind were no where to be seen, and stepping foreward again, they both reappeared. He continued,"I only run into you both when I stand in this particular space on the pavement-"

A even more bewildered Joan began asking questions he didn't hear while searching through her purse.

"-safe to assume the same for both of you."

_"This...tear for lack of a better word, is in only one spot...It may repair itself on it's own, just as it came." _

John said nothing, and stared at Sherlock, who must have disappeared into his own world, which wasn't too odd, but he was making no sense. Absolutely no sense. Usually when hee did this it was a case he was making no sense about, but there hasn't been one since almost two months ago!

**"And if the problem still stands tomarrow, we will come up with a plan of action!" **The Victorian stated**, "See how to stop this nonsense."**

Dr. Watson looked at his friend angrily and with a frustrated sigh, he turned and left.

Agreed by them all they turned awkwardly from each other to leave. One surprised to see Watson angerliy stalking his way back to their rooms,and he ran to catch up.

Another, John checking his forehead for a temperature,and going on about how he should have gotten rest before he left the flat, of which he began to lead him back to, and simultaneously calling their landlady and asking her to put the kettle on.

And the third had turned to go, but was stopped by Joan intensely checking his eyes and asking him to repeat after her and many other stupid things.

The next day Holmes and Dr. Watson had reconciled and forgiven, and we're enjoying a peaceful morning at Bakerstreet, when there was a knock on their door. Watson granted permission to enter and in came the large figure of Mycroft Holmes came in. Behind him a man, near his height, comparably thinner and donned in a black three-piece suit, a umbrella at his side. He looked as displeased as the other.

**"Sherlock...would you happen to know a thing about this?"**

* * *

**°Bold is the G. Ritchie the universe.**

_Initialized is the BBC Sherlock universe._

Underlined is the Elementary universe.

_* Seeing how Sherlock could throw a ball and hit Joan on the curve of her back, he probably doesn't need to be taught how to throw or catch, but for some reason I pictured this happening very early in their relationship (a few days after the pilot) and ...maybe Joan thought playing catch would be a good trust exercise. I don't know one of those random things that just happened._

** I know the concept is nothing new, but like I said the idea wouldn't leave me alone. Also a quick note the setting of the G. Ritchie universe takes place before Game of Shadows, just thought I'd mention that. I know it's a bit, bad, so I'm sorry about this admittedly crackish idea.  
**


	6. Chapter 6

When you receive a visit from two Siamese Twins, who profess strange happenings surrounding the Ringmaster's daughter; such as chants at all hours of the night, fickle mood changes to a before calm adolescent, and the sudden desire of the Strongman to become a trapezist, also many of the show-animals loosing much fur, the only thing to be done is to pack some luggage and catch the train back with them.

That is how Holmes and Watson found themselves on a journey to a small village in the English countryside, where the troupe was currently staked. The reasons for why they were on their way back to London two days later are a bit uncomfortable and delicate, but it can be said it was simple enough and the Ringmaster, Job Hamlet, sworn to be forever in their debt.

This didn't do to elevate Holmes mood on the way back to Bakerstreet. It had been sometime without a case to speak of, and he had been optimistic of this one being most interesting.

"Holmes it could have been much worse," Watson offered, "it could have taken one day!" Despite the glare he received the good Doctor smirked.

"Besides, at any rate I've been meaning to get you out of London's smog and fog, even if it was for two days...also you found we do have a female audience, I should think that makes all the 'romantic drivel' justified!"

Watson knew he was getting into dangerous waters, but he didn't care. After all it wasn't his fault the Ringmaster's daughter, the Bearded Lady, and several of the female acrobats we're fans of their work. And it most certainly wasn't his fault that Holmes' cold, calculating nature, that usually rid him of this problem, had only allured the ladies more!

As unkind as it was, it put Watson in a good mood.

Though when they stepped out of the hansom, and retrieved their luggage, and finally turned to face Bakerstreet, the mirth left him.

The front door was wide open, and silence emitting from inside. Both men said nothing, slowing approaching, already prepare to fight or chase whatever villain may be inside, for whatever reasons, and doing things they wouldn't dream to their Landlady.

But upon entering, they did not meet a villain, holding their landlady hostage, or the remains of a burglary. There we're cats.

Large ones, little ones, many feral. They were scratching at the wallpaper, lounging on the window sills and stairs, and going "meow" at the sight of visitors.

"Ms. Hudson?" Watson called out, trying not to step on the many felines that had begun to rub themselves on his trouser legs and demand his attention. No answer, so he called again, walking towards her own lodgings by the kitchen. And found even more cats.

They had gotten into the kitchen! Several we're now nipping at the spilled contents of the cabinets, and they had ripped the flour and sugar bags, and had scratched the table legs nearly to nothing, and the same for the chairs. and there was the horrible odor of all the other things these mangy creatures did.

Ms. Hudson would become hysterical to see this mess! Watson called for her again, and still no response. The Doctor continued to bellow for her as he went on, and saw a note stuck to the Landlady's door. Written in her hand was an explanation that just after they had left, she received a message from her niece, and she had to leave for Cornwall.

"So she doesn't know about the cats then..." Watson said to himself, hearing a sharp his on his side. He turned and saw one of the intruders on the counter three feet from him, and glaring.

He retraced his steps back to the landing, and saw his friend closely inspecting the door. He explained their Landlady's absence.

"Holmes, how did this happen?"

"I have an idea. The data though, it's not all there."

"What data could you possibly-" The Doctor stopped mid-sentence, with sudden horror. There were cats in the landing, kitchen, and on the stairs...Good God his cigars from Stamford! His bed! His best shoes!

Without a word Watson ran up the stairs, trying not to step on the animals, Holmes following behind. His mind began to run down other things the little demons could have gotten into. His clothes, his extra medical supplies, the soap, his papers! And God knows what sort of things of Holmes' they dug into!

The door to their rooms was open, confirming Watson's fears, and he raced upward, ignoring the irritated hisses and meows from the floor.

But upon reaching the inside of their rooms, he forgot his earlier concerns. For there, sitting in one of the armchairs and sprawled over the settee, was Lestrade and Gregson respectively. Watson rushed to Lestrade, who had his eyes closed and mouth slightly open. The Doctor tried to rouse him, and nearly shouted his name, only receiving a few eyelid flutters and a soft groan.

Holmes looked over at Gregson, and informed Watson, "He's wearing one of my dressing gowns..." Bending closer he continued, "And he reeks of alcohol..."

Watson turned back to the Inspector, and confirmed the same for him. By now he had opened his eyes, groaning and one hand too his head.

Holmes joined Watson at his side and said after a moment, "I think I would be correct in assuming they had much of the stuff."

"...I...beg yer mmm..." Lestrade slurred, still gripping his head. He tried to stand, but quickly fell down with a moan. Holmes and Watson stared at him.

From behind Watson heard Gregson rising and went to help him sit up. He too was gripping his head, awake but keeping his eyes shut.

"...Ah, Dr. Watson?" He muttered, "What...are you doing here? Oh, god my head..."

"We could asked both of you the same!" Watson answered. In response Gregson started to babble about the screws being too loose and his experiment. Trying to stand, he kept swaying back and forth, slightly, and covering his eyes.

"Doctor I have the most dreadful headache..."

"I should think so, you and Lestrade both reek of alcohol! Among other things." Watson said letting him steady himself on his shoulder, "I fear what your families are going through this very moment! Wondering where you are, really now."

"Going by the smell, I'd say you two have spent the last night here." Holmes added, next to him Lestrade had his eyes opened and messaging his temples.

"What do you mean-" One of the feline guest wrapped their tail around his hand," Has-Oi! What did you mean by letting these cats in?!" He said, glaring at Gregson and noticing the creatures.

"I didn't let them in. You broke down the blasted door!"

In the mist of their arguing about who did what and who's fault it was, and Holmes trying but failing to retrieve his stolen dressing gown, Watson momentarily went up to his room, and then returned.

Amazingly the little devils had not reached it, and indeed the smell did not penetrate through the door. The cigars were untouched!

Upon returning he took both men by the arm and proceeded to lead them upstairs. Once all four men were closed off from the little monsters, he said calmly, "Now then, I hardly think either of you are fit to return order to the chaos downstairs."

And this was true enough, fore though the two men argued they still swayed and rubbed their eyes or temples, or the back of their heads, and when Watson had returned they were no longer "discussing" who let the cats in, but yelling at the other to keep his voice down.

When they had all entered the bedroom, first this Lestrade did was collapse of the bed, though Watson wondered how many felines had crawled all over him while he slept, but didn't say anything.

"I agree." Holmes spoke up.

"Therefore, as a Doctor, I think it be best to have you both rest up here till you've "recovered" so to speak. Better than sending you to your families in this state anyway."

A low grumble from a now slouching Gregson was what both men hoped was an sound of thanks.

The good Doctor was halfway down the stairs when he realized his friend still in the bedroom. Returning he saw the Detective still trying to get his dressing gown off a now sleeping Gregson.

"Later Holmes..." He groaned.

"But Watson!" He half whined, and then begrudgingly left the gown and followed his friend downstairs.

Of which, now looking at it without distraction, was in more disarray than noticed. They had scratched things and knocked them over, and coughed up things and other disgusting unpleasantness. And since they were cats of course they didn't care!*

"Some of them, like this old boy," Holmes picked up a white cat that had started to climb up his leg or tried to, and continued," are groomed too neatly to be street animals, and a few had collars."

"Right then, first order of business is to separate the pets from the street dwellers."

This task took the better part of the day, and it wasn't until evening,and many bandages later, that the pair had finally removed all the felines that belonged in the street out of 221B and made sure they stayed out. It had been a grueling task, and many times they had to resort to a sack of some sort to trap the little monsters and quickly deposit them on the side walk.

The cats that were too well fed, groomed or with collars, they rounded and kept in the landing of their rooms.

Sometime during the battle, Watson had gone to the respective Inspectors' families and tell their wives, their husbands were very sorry for making them worry and they had been called on a very urgent matter at work. Knowing Ms. Lestrade it might have been more wise to tell her this, easier for when her husband does return home.

By the time the street cats had been expelled from the house Lestrade and Gregson had recovered, with enough decency to look apologetic about the whole mess, and quickly set to helping them set the kitchen and landing in order. Best to fix that up first, since Ms. Hudson did not say when they could expect her back.

While doing so Holmes mentioned,"You know Gregson, while we were fighting those ferocious felines, I found a number of them laying, scratching, and sniffing upon what turned to be your jacket..." He sat up from his place on the floor, as he was scrubbing the areas where the cats had decided to leave their scent, and looked at Gregson, who was at the same task.

"Did you? oh, I thank you Sir."

"Yes it is decidedly yours, and, well they were to say the least reluctant to leave it. They were quite vicious...bit me a several times in fact, but I succeeded..."

"Ah, well I do really-"

"Let me finish!" Holmes snapped, suddenly cross. Gregson quieted, Lestrade looked back from his place sweeping up the flour and sugar, Watson had been cleaning the walls but now he even froze to listen.

"I also noticed that they were close to my chemistry table...next to it in fact, and there was one large beaker, that had been spilled over on the spot your jacket had lain."

Gregson said nothing but began to look guilty.

Holmes continued,"The problem is, I remember that particular one being empty when we left, but it still had the remains a purplish liquid inside. As the other breakers...I noticed several of them were empty when I can assure you they were not last I saw them."

Lestrade said quickly, "Holmes-"

"Once I had finally retrieved the jacket," Holmes ignored him, "I took up the beaker, and, well I can assure you it smelt of something foreign to me. So while Watson was gone, I dumped what was left of it on the rug. Needless to say there was a fresh pile of the little creatures on the rug in less than five minutes, it might not have been a wise decision, but my simple deduction figured out what lured the cats."

The man's eyes were fixed venomously on Gregson when he finished the narrative.

"Holmes...the man wasn't exactly in his right mind-"

"Well, well Lestrade! Have you and Gregson struck up a new friendship or do you have much blame to share for this?" Holmes seethed.

"Holmes, whatever had happened, they've both shown-oh Holmes! Really, be reasonable. I doubt they even remember the night!"

As Holmes used the stolen dressing gown incident to argue, and Watson chastised him for being childish about the whole thing, the two men that seemed to have disappeared from their view shared wary glances.

While they had recovered, they also compared memories and had worked out all too well what had happened the night before.

* * *

***_I just want to say I don't hate cats, I love cats, and I've also had a few cats..._**

** Thanks for reading and or reviewing ^^  
**


	7. Chapter 7

** Saying right now this is my first time writing drunk... so, sorry...**

* * *

When two people, who know each other and, for whatever reason, find that they do not enjoy the other's company, in work or otherwise, then usually it is those two people who are often put on the same track.

Even then childish quibbling has to be abandoned, especially when lives, and order, and law is the center of the job. But even then the feud and whatever it concerns does not disappear and they may find the job compromised, and it suffers and both men must swallow their pride and come to a agreement before others suffer from it. And sometimes they are unable to do this and must enlist in outside help.

But sometimes, they are able to mediate themselves. And the result is success, the safety of lives, and a new found understanding of one another be it methods, approach, or plainly the personality of him who once irked you so.

Or one offering to buy a round in celebration, in which case there can be no refusal!

As so, that is how Gregson and Lestrade found themselves one evening, pleased with each other and themselves, for catching Douglas, together and in a short time, relying on their own intellect and experience.

Though they had only done so when finding Mr. Holmes was unavailable. But no need to remind each other...

So their evening passed with civil conversation, mostly congratulating one another on the other's brilliant method.

"I've always been a tad envious of that eyes for detail, Lestrade-no I mean, without you I would have missed the stitching on his jacket."

"No no, you we're the one to find the blasted..."

"The blasted what?"

"What's that?"

You were blasting something or another..?"

"...uh."

"Yes?"

Lestrade blinked a few times before he stated, "I'm afraid I lost my...train of thinking."

"Oh. Don't worry, but really old boy, I'm glad we were both...uh, you know."

"You mean it?"

"Of course! I mean, we're..." He trailed off.

"We're London's finest!" Lestrade exclaimed, "that's what we are by God!"

"Yeah!...but then why can't we, you know get along for God's sake?"

"I don't know." Lestrade moaned, suddenly upset. They spent the next couple of moments drinking and relating past conflicts trying to discover where it had all begun.

"No, no before that...wait!" Lestrade said, eyes wide and bloodshot, "Remember, our fist day on the force...it was snowing."

"I like the snow." Gregson mused, resting his head in his hand, " Did I ever tell you 'bout that time I went round to Bakerstreet..."

"No, what you do there?"

"It was snowin' and I saw Mr. Holmes 'n Dr. Watson throwin' snow at each other."

"Why would they do that?"

"They never said...what were you saying?" Gregson asked, "bout our first day on the job?"

"You threw a snowball at me, and it hit m'bum...in front of the-"

"I never threw no snowball, it was that one bloke."

"It wasn't you?"

"No."

Lestrade let out a mournful groan and began to apologize profoundly and his eyes began to mist, but Gregson patted his back and said anyone would have made the same mistake.

"Besides, we got it right this time!"

"That's right we did! No thanks to Sherlock Holmes!" Lestrade spouted.

"The Great Mr. Holmes! Couldn't be bothered for the cases that matter!" Gregson nearly yelled, which wouldn't have made much a disturbance, they failed to notice they we're in a now empty pub.

"Arrogant bugger. We don't need him!"

"We did mighty well for ourselves if I may say so!" Lestrade declared, "Why don't we go let him know?!"

They decided to have one more drink before going, for confidence of course, and then paid together,and went to tell off Mr. Holmes. The streets we're empty save for the usual bands of night walkers and the two men.

They took turns relating their own irks and annoyances with the Detective, and frustration with his loftiness and eccentricities. By the time the two men had gotten to Bakerstreet, after losing their way twice, they were ready to let it all out a Mr. Holmes.

Gregson and Lestrade stood close to the door of 221B and in unison pounded upon it for the better part of five minutes. When there was no answer Lestrade stumbled to the sidewalk and began shouting Holmes' name at the top of his lungs.

"HOLMES! HOLMES YOU STUCK-UP BLOODY BLIGHTER! WAKE UP!"

"LESTRADE!" Gregson bellowed himself.

"You don't have to yell, I'm righta' here."

"You better watch you language...there children somewhere, like" Gregson looked around, "those waifs that work for 'em."

"But how are we gonna wake 'm up?"

"Like this, just throw something at the window." Gregson explained, pushing his new friend aside and tossing a piece of brick at the window to the rooms Holmes and Watson shared. It went straight through causing much glass to break.

* * *

"Good God!" Watson said as he noticed the hole in the window for the first time, as they had cleaned the landing and kitchen best they could and we're now trying to put thier rooms in order. "Holmes-"

"Yes, when we first entered...I thought you saw it."

"No!"

* * *

"Now look what you did! There's a'hole in their window!"

"It's...alright, Ms. Hudson'll fix it..." Gregson assured and returned to the door, banging on it with his fist and yelling for Ms. Hudson with more gusto than before.

"M'Hudson! You got to fix a window!"

"You can't talk to her like that! Watch..." Lestrade proceeded to bang loudly," Ms. Hudson! Please fix the window!"

After some minutes they both decided something must be wrong, as Ms. Hudson would have come by now. In a moment of sudden panic they used their combined weight and threw themselves upon the door, and it collapsed under them.

"You broke the door!" Lestrade whined worriedly.

"Don't worry, M'Hudson will fix it." Gregson comforted him. "We have to go and tell Holmes...something..."

" That's right! Tell 'em we don't need his know how!"

"Yeah, we manage fine!"

With their task remembered the two men stumbled up to the rooms and forced their way in much the same way as they had downstairs. Only to find the rooms empty.

"Blast, they're gone!"

"So we'll wait for 'em." Lestrade said sitting down in a arm chair. "I wonder who sits here?"

"Probably the Doctor."

"Good man he is..."

"Yes. Looney as Holmes to live here..."

"Quite looney."

There was silence,and Lestrade began to hear some chiming behind him and asked what his new friend was doing. He turned and saw Gregson, clad in a dressing gown,and holding different beakers in a wild manner.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes." He said in a exaggerated voice. Lestrade began to yell with laughter. Gregson began pouring this and that into a beaker explaining he couldn't bother to go to the Yard, he had a most important expirement.

"Very important, very, very, very important you know!" Gregson all but shouted, and stared at the beaker of purplish liquid.

"How's yer expirement gonna work Mr. Holmes?"

Gregson attempted to waved his discarded jacket with dramatic flourish, but failed, then poured the liquid all over the piece of clothing until the beaker was mostly empty.

"Gets rid of stains." He announces before dropping it on the floor, and placing the beaker on the chemistry table lopsided.

Then he climbed on to the sette and curled up, and snoring within minutes. Lestrade followed soon after, before the cats appeared.


	8. Chapter 8

The patient grimaced and even whimpered as the Doctor applied an ointment to help the wound, or rather wounds. Many had attacked the lower legs and stomach with a viciousness and blood had already left it's stain upon a perfectly good pair of trousers and a somewhat new shirt.

Both of which we're now rolled up as far as they could be, revealing the raw stinging inflictions surrounded by dried, and still fresh, blood.

The only consolation that could be given to the victim was that they we're not as bad as they could have been; but this provided no comfort, much to the Doctor's dismay.

Satisfied the ointment was now doing it's part Dr. Watson began the bandages, finding pangs of guilt foster in him with each small cry and sound of pain that left his friend as he worked. And he could also find himself annoyed, he knew full well as numerous as the wounds were Holmes has suffered worse and was "suffering" now for the hope of making him suffer as well.

"I'd like to remind you that in your company I have been shot at, chased, half-drowned, kidnapped, committed some few acts against the law-and nearly caught by the authorities in one instance-, tricked, and sometimes even made a fool of in the sake of your work! And you have weathered worse also in the name of the game." He told him as he applied bandages.

"My Dear Doctor in those instances you mentioned, you we're aware of the danger that may come from following me." He stopped to wince as Dr. Watson fastened a bandage on top of a gash on his stomach, "I had no such warning, infact you assured me it was quite safe."

"And it was! And still is!"

"Oh l beg pardon, but you see the damage well enough!" He snapped, and resembling a betrayed feeling child, which was as the good Doctor had the opinion he was acting like.

"Holmes, please stop this cry-for-nothing! It wasn't until the last few moments-"

"You had assured me that one could never forget how to ride a bicycle!"

"So I had, and you didn't!"

"Well I wish you had said the same for the mechanics of how to stop!"

At that moment Watson had finished securing the last bandage on his friend's exposed kneecap, and patting it as a mother would, he replied,"In that case I am sorry old fellow, really. I simply didn't know such a thing needed reminding."

* * *

** Bike accidents XP. Lots of love and thanks to any one reading or commentin**


	9. Chapter 9

** Lots of love and thanks, and enjoy reading :)**

* * *

It was unusual for the house to be so quiet in the summertime. Circe's two sons were either annoying one another or, by chance, her eldest decided to act the part of an elder brother and show the younger some new object of focus. Which could take the form of playing teacher and showing Sherlock a new lesson from his own year, or encourage a new outside activity Mycroft had observed the other boys play (which went from tree climbing to rugby) and the latter usually ended with either one wailing for her, and Leah, eyes drowning in tears, and evil scowls to the so-called cause of the injury.

Sherlock was still young enough she could forgive his sobs and try to kiss his scars. But Mycroft should have out grown such behavior years ago and Circe knew if the boy was as active as his little brother (for she was certain it was only at home he made any effort for outside play, and even then...) he might have. But still she heard herself defending him when Auden tried to encourage some toughening-up.

Still, no matter the activity the house was rarely as quiet as it had been this day. She was taking advantage of the occasion by reading in the window seat. The sun shining high in the sky, warming her skin. The silence and stillness were almost distracting. She thought for a moment that her sons were maturing, when there was a light trot heard not far from the hall.

Within a few minutes in strode her five-year old son, his head hung down sadly, he walked to her and got on his knees, then buried his face in her lap. Circe petted his black locks, and asked what was the matter, with a forlorn groan as answer.

"Did Mycroft hurt your feelings?" She asked, and head still in lap he nodded. "How?"

The little boy raised his head and looked at her. A pair of ears and a nose he hadn't grown into yet, and Auden's sharp grey eyes, which were now wide and on the verge of tears. He answered, "He's ignoring me!"

"Is that all?"

"He won't open his door! And I knocked." He whined, and added, "I'm bored and he doesn't want to do anything. Like always."

"Only boring people get bored, Sherlock." Circe chimed, trying not the laugh at his expression. "I'm sure there's something for you to do." This didn't help the boy and he whined sadly. She placed a bookmark in her novel and said, "Do you want to play with Mama?"

Sherlock thought for a moment then nodded and stood up. Circe did so as well and told him to cover his eyes and face towards the window.

"I don't want to play hide and seek!"

"This isn't hide and seek. I am going to hide something, somewhere in the house, and I want you to show me that you can find it."

"What is it?"

"That, I am leaving to you to find out. You'll have to look for something that is out-of-place, or shouldn't be where you find it. Observe where everything is, and when you see something that doesn't belong, then you found it."

"What happens if I win?"

"Then, I'll tell cook to make you a special treat. Just for you."

Sherlock smiled, determination lighted up his eyes which had been so sad moments ago, and he then placed his little paws over them.

Circe walked out of the room, and stopped, while walking in place until her pace became slower and slower until she stopped. After some minutes she began to step in place again, first quietly then louder, and soon walked back into the room. She resumed her seat and told the child he could open his eyes now.

He did so and sped out of the room, his footsteps heard echoing down the hallway as he broke into a run.

'He will be occupied for some time.' She thought, perhaps unkind it was, but she had seen her little son bored. And indeed in a few instances he became so difficult, so irritable and grumpy that Auden had taken the birch to him, or threatened to, in effort to male him sit still. And when he did large warms tears of frustration rolled down his pale little cheeks, as though a birch rod had been used on him! As though the poor child was in pain.

This would keep things calm. Relatively calm.

* * *

He placed a moderate stone in her lap, dirt and all, and looked at her expectantly.

"Where did you find this?"

"In the flowerbed! Stones don't go in flowerbeds, Mama, only flowers do!" He announced proudly.

"That may be true Dear, but stones do go outside."

Rather than pouting the boy took the stone, and with a look of confusion took it back outside, returning some moments later with a wooden spoon from the kitchen, looking as triumphant as before. He announced that a wooden spoon does not go with the silver ladles.

But his face fell when his Mother reminded that the spoon and ladles were all cookery. And then he was off again.

He returned with one of his Father's fountain pens, and she sharply told him to return it, as he knows he is not allowed in his Father's study.

* * *

Auden sat next to his wife, staring into the fire, his pipe in hand. Mycroft had been lured from the library, though brought the volume with him, and sat on the floor by his Mother's knee. Sherlock had informed his Father of the game, agreeing to rest for dinner and then went off directly after. Since then he had brought to Circe's knee a forgotten wine cork, a shoe lace, a bottle of medicine, and a small map. She would send him off, with each new item, with some reason about why it was not misplaced.

After the boy left with a broken mousetrap, Mr. Holmes said to his wife, "Well he's determined! Circe what is it you've hidden from him? And where is it anyway?"

From the corner of her eye, Circe that her twelve-year-old son had looked up from his volume, also curious. She explained her trickery and was met with a surprised stare from Auden Holmes and Mycroft alike.

"He's going to make himself ill! Running about like that, and he's bound to get into something he shouldn't! Circe, why did-" He was interrupted by the little boy running to them and holding out a wooden pipe, grey eyes large and shining.

"Sherlock, you know not to go in my study!"

"But-"

"No! That is my pipe, Sherlock, I have told you that you are not allowed to go in the study!" Mr. Holmes snapped, sternly. This did not break the boy's smile. He grinned even more happily.

"That's it! It's your pipe but I found it in Mycroft's room!"

* * *

**Who else heard that phrase as a kid? "Only boring people get bored"**

**Thanks for reading! ^_^**


End file.
